The other day, I was sitting in our living room on the couch. Suddenly, I hear the scampering of little feet and I see Kiwi, our kitten, come charging into the room at approximately Mach 5.
I wish I had a slow-motion replay because it all did happen very fast, but near as I can tell she hurled her tiny body at our loveseat, sprung off it with barely a touch, and went catapulting toward the mantel (which she knows she’s not allowed on).
She didn’t quite make it. She managed to grab on with her front claws for a second, so she hung off the mantel like a furry, wriggly Christmas stocking. She swung around just enough so I could see her face, which bore an expression I can only describe as “I’ve made a terrible mistake”. She fell onto a decorative urn, which she knocked over (but fortunately didn’t break, as we both like that urn and it was a gift from a good friend).
My wife yelled in from the kitchen “what in the world was that?!”, while I attempted to rescue the urn and determine that Kiwi was OK (she went darting off, so she was obviously capable of running still).
The cat was fine, of course. I wish I could say that was an isolated incident in the saga of cat ownership, but sadly I cannot.